A Theory on Bats
by Feather Ice
Summary: This time when Merlin saves his life, Arthur is fully aware of it. He's also eight years old and about to learn that sometimes the hardest part of having a friend is keeping one. Especially when there are friends that you should never have made in the first place.


A/N: Alright, I know that no one is talking to me anymore because I procrastinate so badly, but I swear this has been on my computer for a while. I just finally realized it had merit if edited. I hope you like it. And, uh, since it's already been finished for a while, just think of how hard it will be for me to never update it! Won't that be nice.

Warnings: Liberties taken with the canon!verse (all of which this prologue should explain well enough), small children being troublesome, My Dreadful Writing, and Uther being his usual, sparkly self. And no slash, unless you decide to interpret things creatively. So without further ado:

0o0o0

**A Theory on Bats**

**Prologue: A Change of Fate**

"Now," the king turned, taking his piercing gaze with him. His eyes were full of steely fire, maybe even mad with it. Those eyes took the place of any blade, for the king of Camelot carried no weapon to this battle. No—not _battle_. That had been their condition. Though the knights of Camelot were assembled in the empty field behind them, there would be no battle.

The king, Balinor had been told, would honor his word.

"You must call the dragon now," King Uther repeated. His weight shifted towards Balinor—to what? Attack? Push him aside? Clap his shoulder like a friend? Uther stopped short as their eyes met. Lord of dragons, lord of men. Here ye stand; may the solemn Gods of the Old Religion bear witness.

Never in a thousand, thousand years would Balinor have thought the day would come when Uther Pendragon was willing to stand with a dragonlord like an equal. Almost like a friend.

_Never in a thousand, thousand years will I trust this man to honor his word,_ Balinor thought. His heart was heavy as stone in his chest_. …I should not do this._

He would never have considered it, if not for Hunith. Uther would never grant their kind peace, never permit Balinor to stay with his beloved wife in Ealdor. But… perhaps such peace could be bought.

The price, the king claimed, was Kilgharrah. Not dead—no. He wanted to speak to the dragon. To make peace.

_I am sorry, old friend_. Balinor thought as he summoned up his ancient power. His heart ached. …_Do not come when I call._

"Balinor, call the beast!" Uther cried from behind him. Balinor's eyes opened again, weighed with heavy guilt. His lips parted.

_Oh, my Hunith._

The dragon's tongue poured forth from his mouth, heavy with power and life. Kilgharrah's life—he was the last. The very last dragon. There would never be another. Balinor threw his head back and roared.

He screamed his command to the sky, with all its unbearable weight.

_Kilgharrah, run. They hunt you._

King Uther had dragons called before. He was the first to realize what it meant when Kilgharrah did not appear before them. No dragonlord's call could be resisted, after all. When Balinor turned, he was unsurprised to find a silver blade at his throat and blades in every man's hand besides. Not a battle, of course.

A slaughter.

_My Hunith. Forgive me._

0o0o0

They felt him die together.

Kilgharrah, nestled deep in the mountains, felt the last thing he could call brother feel pain and die, felt Balinor's lifeblood seeping away. He threw back his head and howled, sinking bitter fire into the clouds with hate and loneliness and grief. Madness gripped him around the neck as nothing else could, for Kilgharrah had never lost in battle.

Unfortunately, his heart had never been invincible.

Miles away, Hunith felt it too, on her knees with her hands clasped in prayer that her love might come home safe. She did not feel it as Kilgharrah did, with agony and death, but with a burst of warm life within her belly. Her secret. She'd promised to speak of it when he returned. She had not wanted to worry Balinor before this dangerous journey.

She was with his child, and the dragonlord's power found the unborn boy and became his. Hunith pressed a hand to her stomach, not knowing what to make of the gentle warmth and the thrum inside of her. It was not her power to bear, but it passed into her too.

_A good omen,_ Hunith thought. _Surely. This cannot foretell evil._

Kilgharrah's screams died down to a moan. He felt them, through his loss, in their second birth. Kin. Strange, impossible kin that he had not known in all his many years. There had never been a female dragonlord.

Nor had there ever been a dragonlord gifted with power so early. It twined through the child's body alongside his mother's blood. It changed him, even now. Made him something new.

Kilgharrah didn't know what to make of either of them. But he swore on his fallen brothers and sisters that they would have a different fate.

No Pendragon would ever touch them.


End file.
